DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN CSI:NY OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. I ONLY OWN SAMANTHA FLACK AND ALL THE FLACK KIDS.

THIS IS A FUTURE CHAPTER. AND I'D LIKE TO DEDICATE TO AXELLIA AND THANK HER FOR HER LOVELY REVIEW AND FOR HER EXPRESSION OF SUPPORT. IT MEANT THE WORLD TO ME AND ENCOURAGED ME TO CONTINUE WITH THIS STORY!

STILL TIME TO VOTE IN THE AWARDS FOLKS! HEAD ON OVER AND SHOW YOUR FAVS SOME LOVE!

OKAY, THIS CHAPTER IS DIFFERENT. BLAME THE MUSE.

Love in the twenty-first chromosome

"When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary;
When troubles come and my heart burdened be;
Then, I am still and wait here in the silence,
Until you come and sit awhile with me

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas;
I am strong, when I am on your shoulders;
You raise me up: To more than I can be

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas
I am strong, when I am on your shoulders;
You raise me up, to more than I can be

There is no life - no life without its hunger;
Each restless heart beats so imperfectly;
But when you come and I am filled with wonder,
Sometimes, I think I glimpse eternity."
-You Raise Me Up, Josh Groban

Our Story: Don and Samantha Flack,Flushing, Queens. Proud parents of Kieran, 15, Alannah and Reghan 13, Mikayla, 10 and Liam 7. And last, but definitely not least, the incredible Declan, 13. Whose taught us what real love is all about.

Five months shy of my thirty-fifth birthday, I found out that I was pregnant with my second child. It was Christmas Eve -and the night of my first wedding anniversary- when I surprised my husband ,Don, with the news that he was going to be a daddy again. I had just given him tickets to a Rangers game, and as a lifelong Rangers fan -is there such a thing as a fan boy? Because if there is, he is the quintessential one- he was convinced that there was no better Christmas gift he could ever receive.

He changed his mind right quick when I handed him that pregnancy test. We were somewhat surprised that we were expecting again. Our son Kieran, was just two weeks shy of his first birthday and we'd only been consciously trying to conceive for a couple of months. On top of that, we had suffered the agony of an early term miscarriage -it had been a out of nowhere kind of pregnancy- and we were worried that it was going to happen again.

Don and I were dealt our first official 'blow' when it came time for my first ultrasound. He was out of town at a law enforcement conference, relegating my younger brother Adam to be the official hand holder and the one forced to listen to me bitch and moan about having to pee so badly. I mean a litre of water? I'm not a camel. The scan had been relatively mundane and predicable. Here's the placenta, here's the umbilical cord, here's the heartbeat and here…well look at that. There's two more of everything I just pointed out.

Triplets.

We were floored. No one on either side of our families had ever experienced a multiple birth and the doctor told us afterwards that we'd had a one in forty five thousand chance of conceiving triplets naturally. No use of fertility drugs, no in-vitro. Nothing but -as Don would later say- good old fashioned luck.

The thought of carrying, delivering and essentially caring for triplets was daunting. We had struggled the first time around just getting used to having one baby. How were we ever going to handle three? At once.

Once our shock wore off and we were able to think properly, we also began to plan for the actual pregnancy itself. We made contact with the Manhattan branch of Parents of Multiples and began attending monthly meetings. We made new friends and received wonderful support through other families that had gone through exactly what we were just embarking on. Through the group we were put in contact with the proper professionals. An OB that had extensive experience in caring for women pregnant with multiples, and as the due date approached, a fantastic pedeatrician with an astonishing amount of twins, triplets and even two sets of quads in his practice.

The pregnancy itself was routine. Well, as routine as it could be considering the problems I'd had the first time around. My incompetent cervix reared its ugly head yet again at the fifth month and was closely followed by gestational diabetes and the onset of pre-eclampsia. From day on, I'd suffered from all day sickness, constant heart burn and vertigo. And as with my first pregnancy, my triple screen blood work came back with a sixty percent chance that one -or perhaps all three in this case- had some kind of genetic or chromosomal abnormality.

While we were concerned, we reminded ourselves that we had received the same result when I was having Kieran and he'd been born perfectly healthy and, at the expense of not having a more appropriate word, normal. Don and I talked several times about what the news actually meant to us and our babies, and we decided -as we had the first time- that we wouldn't pursue any further testing to find out what, if anything, was wrong with one of all of our babies. And while an ultrasound at the twentieth week had spotted two 'markers' indicating a possible chromosomal defect in 'Baby C'- who we'd later find out was a boy- , we were quickly assured by a geneticist and a maternal-fetal specialist that shorter than average femurs and a two vessel umbilical cord weren't anything to be overly concerned about. That many 'regular' babies had those issues and they didn't see anything else that suggested there was a problem with 'Baby C'. We were told that we were making "much ado about nothing" and that we were to go home and "enjoy the rest of the pregnancy".

So we did. As much as you can enjoy constant dizziness and nausea and the fact that by the time I was six months, I had gained almost a hundred pounds and closely resembled a double wide trailer. At twenty-six weeks, I was admitted to the hospital so doctors could keep a close eye on me and the babies. They were concerned about my cervix and what they'd believed was the start of Inuterine Growth Restriction. I was but on strict bed rest and spent nearly twenty four hours a day hooked up to a fetal monitor and the plan was to be induced at thirty four weeks. If I didn't go into labour by then.

A day past hitting my thirty two weeks, my water broke at 9:30 in the morning during one of my twice weekly scans. On the Fourth of July holiday, none the less. An hour later, while Don paced nervously in a nearby family waiting room with his parents and Adam there for moral support, our triplets were delivered via C-section. Two girls and one boy. All under three pounds and all blessed with huge blue eyes and thick, black hair. Tons of it. The babies were quickly taken to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit to be assessed. Because of my inability to have an epidural, I was given general anesthetic and put right under and I hadn't gotten the opportunity to see my children or even touch them after their delivery.

It would be twenty four hours until I was able to head down to the NICU to see the babies. Don had been running himself ragged travelling back and forth from my private room on the third floor, to the nursery on the fifth. He was unshaven and dishevelled and had a permanent grin on his face. I don't think the backwards Met cap had been taken off his head since he'd arrived at the hospital the day before. He'd actually been at our recently purchased home in Flushing, Queens tending to outside chores and had the worst sunburn possible on his nose and the back of his neck. Not to mention permanent tan lines of where his sunglasses had been perched upon his face. I knew he was exhausted. And that he was running on nothing but pure adrenaline at that point. But he was determined to play both attentive and adoring husband, and proud papa.

But there was something…something I couldn't quite put my finger on. As we made our way to the nursery, he was very vague when I asked him questions about the babies. Mostly about our son. While he chattered incessantly about the girls, when it came time to talk about the boy he seemed to close himself off. As if he was holding something back. Some piece of news that he knew would hurt me and that he didn't have the heart to be open and honest about. And that made me extremely nervous, and I began to wonder if just maybe those doctors twelve weeks ago had been wrong. If they'd misdiagnosed us and brushed a problem aside. If they hadn't taken things seriously enough and now I was about to have a bomb dropped on me.

The triplets, despite their tiny bodies and their fragile states, were amazingly beautiful. They had bright pink skin and the most impossibly small hands and feet I'd ever seen. Severely jaundiced, they were encased in incubators and put under the bili-lights. They had on no clothing and even the smallest of diapers seemed monstrous on them. Hospital bracelets graced their thin ankles and the girls had little red bows in their hair. Their tiny bodies were invaded by tubes and wires and were being fed through nasal gastric tubes, although the nurses had said they were doing exceptionally well considering how premature they were. Taped to each incubator was a piece of construction paper. Pink for the girls, blue for our little boy. Each had Mickey and Minnie Mouse stickers attached to it, and each bore the corresponding baby's name.

During my sixth month and after an ultrasound had told us we were having two daughters and one son, we had, after countless hours of arguments, picked our children's names. We had decided on Reghan and Alannah (who are identical twins) and Declan. We had picked Irish names with strong meanings to go along with Kieran, and to honour both of our heritages.

I knew, the second I'd looked at Declan that something was wrong. And it had nothing to do with the breathing tube that had been inserted down his throat. That was just plain startling. But it was the colour of his skin that had bothered me the most, and the way it looked as if his little lungs were struggling to draw a breath, even with outside help. His skin was blue and the skin on his chest was being sucked in between his ribs. And unlike his sisters, who even at their early age couldn't seem to sit still and flailed their arms and their legs constantly, Declan barely moved. He barely flinched and not once opened his eyes. Reghan and Alannah, when you stroked their hands, would open their tiny fists and wrap all five fingers around one of yours. But Declan…there was nothing.

I knew he was sick without even being told. And the news concerning what exactly what was wrong with him, and what could still be wrong had hit hard. Don had taken me back to my room after an hour in the nursery. I was a complete basket case. I was furious at him for not telling me that our son wasn't well. I was anger at myself for not knowing that Declan had a problem and for not taking the doctors more seriously when they'd initially suspected something was wrong. Most of all, I felt guilty. I had thought that I had done everything right during the pregnancy. I'd never been a smoker and I hadn't touched a stitch of alcohol since I found out I was pregnant. I had eaten right, avoided stress as much as possible, and had gotten appropriate rest.

So why the hell was my baby so sick?

That answer would come an hour later when the head of pediatrics, a geneticist and a pediatric cardiologist showed up at my room to talk to Don and I. I could tell by my husband's face that while he'd been aware of one of the problems our son was having, he had absolutely no clue why so many specialist were showing up all at once. I'd never seen him look that perplexed and startled in the three plus years that I'd known him.

And that scared the shit out of me.

The cardiologist went first. He explained that Declan had received a startling low Apgar score of four when he'd been delivered. That he'd been blue, wheezing and relatively unresponsive to stimuli. They'd rushed him first to the NICU, where a team of doctors were ready to take a look at him. A routine chest exam had alerted them to a serious problem and an emergency echo-cardiogram was ordered.

Declan was diagnosed, shortly after birth, with Tetrology of Fallot. A congenital heart defect that involves four anatomical abnormalities and is the most common cyanotic heart defect. His 'problems' could be corrected through open heart surgery, and the cardiologist was optimistic that not only could he survive what was considered a routine operation, but that our son would have a long, healthy life ahead of him. Many a child, if they hadn't developed congestive heart failure by their first year, never had future cardiac problems and lived long, productive lives. In Declan's case however, his pre-maturity was presenting a major road block. He was too small and too weak to survive any kind of operation. He'd be constantly monitored and kept on strict medications and a breathing tube, but until he gained weight and his lungs were more mature, the surgeon would not perform any operation.

As if that news wasn't devastating enough, we were told that Declan was hypotonic. He had little to no muscle tone. And mixed in with low set ears, epicanthal folds in the corners of his eyes, a flat and short nasal bone, a single crease across the palms of his hands and what was known as sandal foot (an extra large space between his big and second toes), the doctors were convinced that our son had a chromosomal defect. Most specifically, Down Syndrome.

We were floored. I remember a hush falling over the room as we struggled to come to terms with what we were being told. As if our newborn son needing a heart operation wasn't tough enough to accept, now we were being told that he had something that was chronic. Lifelong. Something that we'd been assured months ago that he didn't have. Something that we knew little to nothing about it and that terrified us. We didn't know how to take care of a special needs child. We didn't know if we had the strength to take care of one. I knew Don's brain was working overtime at the news, just like mine was. I knew all of the things that he was thinking because I was thinking them too. He was wondering what in the hell had ever gone wrong. He was questioning the doctors' findings and pissed off that it had been swept under the carpet months ago. He was worried about having a child that was different. One who'd be viewed as abnormal and teased incessantly all of his life.

It would take another week to find out for sure, via a karyotype test if Declan did indeed, have Down Syndrome. We had cried together and expressed our fears together. We'd even prayed together. We didn't want a baby that was different. Regardless of the many times we'd said we'd be okay with it, the trust of the matter was, we weren't. We just weren't prepared because in our hearts, we'd never actually thought it would happen to us. It was something that happened to other people. To older mothers. Not to someone not even in her mid thirties.

And especially not to us.

When the same geneticist had showed up to speak to us while we were in the nursery visiting our triplets, it had confirmed our worst fears when she'd handed up us a copy of her findings. Baby boy Flack, it had read. No first name, nothing. He was just baby Flack with a patient ID number next to it. And there, at the bottom of the paper, was the final verdict. Our son was in possession of a third twenty first chromosome and was the beneficiary of several physical characteristics to go along with it. Our son had non-disjunction Trisomy 21.

The geneticist had offered a small, "I'm sorry" and had quickly left the nursery. Leaving us in complete shock as we stared down at those results in our hands. I can't speak for Don. I don't know for sure exactly how he felt at that moment. We've been married for fifteen years and he still hasn't talked about how he feels or what it had done to him to hear that news. But I'd seen the way his eyes had teared up and the way he took in a deep breath and let it out ever so slowly. The way his jaw had clenched and his body had tensed. And how he'd stared down at that paper for what seemed like an eternity. Slowly nodding as the news kicked him in the gut and then settled on his heart like a ten ton weight. And then, clearing his throat noisily, he had calmly folded the paper and slowly stood up and went over to Declan's incubator. And as he looked at our son and stuck his hand into Declan's 'little home' a gentle smile had spread across his face and he was Don again. He was back to being the stoic one. The rock. The person who kept me from completely falling apart time and time again.

For me, it had felt as if the ground had opened up and swallowed me whole. I had heard and read the words Down Syndrome and Trisomy 21 and my entire world seemed to end right there and then. Everything was gone. The baby that had carried inside of me for so long was gone. This wasn't the child that I had planned for. That I had been planning things for. I had been expecting the perfect baby. I had been dreaming the dreams that most expectant parents did. I had thought about what he would look like, what he would be like. How he would do in school, how popular he would be. How smart he would be. How I hoped he'd go to college one day and get married and have an amazing wife and children of his own. Fantastical ideas, of course. But it's hard not to think of all of that while you're feeling the miracle of life inside of you and buying all of those baby clothes. The future just seems to go hand in hand along with the booties and the onesies.

And now, all of that was just gone. I didn't even know my own baby. The baby I'd planned for was gone. And in his place was a complete stranger that I feared. And maybe even loathed. I hated myself for doing something wrong, even though my limited knowledge of Downs told me that it was something that happened at conception, not something someone caused. And most of all, I hated my baby. I hated him for being different. For putting me through sheer emotional hell. For bring a lifetime of ridicule and persecution onto himself. For not being 'normal'. And part of me…a small terrified part that didn't want to let that tiny baby down…actually prayed that he would die. That the heart defect would claim him and I wouldn't have to put up with the anguish of raising a child that was different. For years I kept that inside. I'd never told anyone that I'd ever felt that way. I was ashamed that I'd thought that about my own child. And worried what people would think about me if I ever told them about it. It wasn't that I wanted Declan to die. I wanted the Down Syndrome to go away. And there was no way of taking it out of him or turning back the clock.

I was angry. I blamed anyone I could. Myself, the doctors, my husband. I was scared and I was hurt and I was embarrassed. I was ashamed of my own child and that thought made me sick to my stomach. What had started out as routine case of post-partum depression had quickly spun out of control. I shut people out. I refused to have anything to do with my son. I would go into the nursery and spend time touching and talking to Alannah and Reghan, but I barely gave my son a second look. I was repulsed by him. By what he had. And I was worried about getting emotionally attached to him in case he didn't make it.

Irrational thoughts of course. But depression plays horrible tricks on us. A week after the triplets birth, Don had gone ahead behind my back and contacted a representative from the Queens Down Syndrome Association. He was worried about my rejection of our son, and what it would do long term to both me and Declan. He had resolved himself to the fact that this was the way our lives were going to be. Declan had it and there was no way to get rid of it. He was here and that was that. We made him and now we had to suck it up and take care of him. Although I'm sure, behind that macho, Alpha male personality was a very scared and anxious man who wondered just how the hell he'd ever gotten himself into such a mess.

Judy, the head of the association was a phenomenal support to me during the darkest days. She assured me that I wasn't crazy. That I wasn't a mean, evil bitch for thinking such horrible things about my own flesh and blood. She promised me that acceptance -at least partial, because full acceptance never really happens- would be a long and slow road. And that I'd fall off the path time and time again and the love for my child would help me get back on it. I would one day wake up and realize that this wasn't the end of the world. I would one day look at Declan and not see him as damaged. That one morning I'd get up out of bed and give him his breakfast and Down Syndrome wouldn't be the first thing I thought of when I looked at my son. That I'd see a beautiful little boy with his father's eyes and smile. That I'd see the miracle that I'd had a hand in creating.

She promised me, as we both cried and she held me in her arms and comforted me as a mother would a sick or injured child, that I would one day stop being so angry. That I'd stop laying blame and feeling so guilty. That I would smile again. That I would laugh again.

That Declan would see to that.

That one night, as I was walking the floor with a colicky baby or patting up a burp, I'd realize that Declan needed me.

And that I needed him.

It has been a long journey. For our entire family. And even now, thirteen years later as I write this, I still hurt and I still cry. Declan is a wonderful, intelligent and loving boy. Who still has his father's smile and incredible blue eyes. Who has a sarcastic sense of humour and an uncanny ability to make you laugh even on the darkest of days. Who has a gentle, kind soul and an infectious laugh. Who is stubborn to a fault and who takes after his dad in every way, shape and form. He's well loved by his peers and hated by his siblings the majority of times. Not because he's different. But because he's a pesky little brother who snoops through rooms and reads diaries. Who loves to eavesdrop on the upstairs phone and listen to his sisters' conversations. Who lives to play practical jokes and who laughs uproariously at every corny joke he or his father tells. Who loves to sing and dance and play basketball and hockey. And who is the first person to comfort you when your hurt or upset. Who will bring you the Kleenexes AND a big bowl of ice cream when you're hurting.

Declan has taught me that love is unconditional. He's taught me the true meaning of being a mom. And he's shown me how to be a more tolerant, better human being. That just because someone learns slower or looks a little different, they are no less human than any of their counterparts. Declan is a beautiful boy. He's tenacious and feisty and he never gives up. He tries and tries again and eventually, even if it is after a thousand attempts, he gets it. And every time he learned something new it was a massive deal in our house. We praised each and every milestone had manage to reach. While we were proud of your 'normal' children for reaching them, it was sweeter when Declan got there. Because he had to work twice or three times as hard to do a simple task. He was a year old when he learned to sit up on his own. Two and a half when he learned to walk. Almost five before he spoke an intelligible word.

Sure…way off of target when you look at the developmental milestones of regular kids. But at least he got there. He fought long and hard but at least he did it. And that's all that has ever mattered to us. Our son will succeed. He will have a productive life. He will love.

And we will support him every step of the way.

I'm not saying that it's going to be easy. It's a struggle. Day in and day out. It hurts like hell to be around 'normal' kids some days. To see them doing things that their parents take for granted and knowing that that is where your child should be but isn't. It's hard to take the stares and the whispers. It's going to kill you inside when they come home from school and say that someone picked on them. Or that a friend they've had for years has suddenly decided to not invite them to birthday parties anymore. You're going to encounter narrow minded people that will tell you that your child will never do something. That they're not welcome in certain activities. And as thick of a skin as you'll have years later, it will still kill you inside to see your child cry over being different. You will fight to find the right words when they ask what is wrong with them. And your child will surprise you with the depth of his understanding and his ability to forgive those who have wronged them.

And they will charm you with their smile and melt you with their hugs.

I have been exceptionally lucky. I have had the most amazing support system anyone could ever ask for. I lucked out when I married the most wonderful man fifteen years ago. Don has been an incredible source of strength for me. He's always been the one to keep me on my feet when I feel like my entire world is crumbling underneath me. He's been my rock. My heart and soul and my protector. He's chased away many a demon and kept them at bay. He's dried an immeasurable amount of tears and kissed away a lot of emotional pain. He's held me in his arms and stroked my hair and never said a word when I've needed to have a good cry. And he's been the first person to kick me in the ass when he feels like I'm dwelling on the negative too much.

He's never judged me or questioned my ability to take care of not only Declan, but our five other kids as well. He's an amazing father. He works a hard, trying job and long, tiring hours. Yet he always finds the time to attend the kids' sporting events or help them with homework. He always takes the time to tell his kids he loves them and he always makes that extra effort to let me know how much he appreciates me.

I haven't always given him the same respect. And that is my one regret of the last thirteen years. I've never sat down and told him how much all of his compassion and his patience has meant to me. He is irreplaceable in my life. And there are no words that could properly express the depth of love that I feel for him.

I only hope that one day, he'll realize how amazing he is. And I can only pray that I've made him even half as happy he's made me.

Now take the time to get to know your baby! Outside of the diagnosis and the health problems that may, or may not, have come with it. Hold your baby, rock your baby, kiss your baby. Tell your baby that you love them.

Extra chromosome and all.

Samantha took a deep, quivering breath as she finished reading through the page of typing on the computer screen before her. She had agreed, when approached by the local Down Syndrome Association with the idea, to write out her story. Her version of events following Declan's birth and diagnosis. So they could included as many families' stories as possible in a new parents package they planned to make and distribute at local hospitals. Make it as personal and compassionate as you can, she'd been encouraged. Put in as many feelings and thoughts as possible, no matter how bad it hurts.

And it had hurt. It had hurt a hell of a lot. It had taken her a total of two nights to get it finished because she'd cried so bad while working on the piece. She hadn't opened up to anyone about how she'd felt that day. About the fears and emotions that she'd struggled so hard with. Thirteen years had gone by and she'd never sat down with anyone and talked about Declan and the circumstances surrounding finding out he had Down Syndrome. She had bottled it all up and simply gotten on with things. She'd concentrated on being the best mother possible, on getting him everything that he needed to succeed in life. Her main focus had always been him. So much so that she'd long ago forgotten how to take care of herself emotionally and spiritually.

And now…now all of her fears and thoughts and emotions were laid completely bare. Complete strangers would one day read that and think one of two things. Either this woman is totally insane, or this woman is strong and tenacious and has triumphed over some of the darkest days in her life. She had no idea who would actually get a hold of the finished product. No families who'd just received the diagnosis, of course, would read it. Probably their family members and heath care professionals too.

But to her, only one person mattered. One person whose opinion and praise meant more to her then anything in the world.

She wiped the tears off of her cheeks with the front of her t-shirt and saved the document and then hit the print button. Leaning back in the black leather chair in her husband's home office -she'd always done her 'homework' at the kitchen table. The office was always his safe haven away from the insanity of having six kids- she closed her eyes and composed herself while waiting for the printing to finish. The house was blessedly quiet. Liam was still out with Uncle Danny. The latter had called an hour ago and told Sam that Blessing of the Bikes had gone well despite a two hour wait and that he was taking his little buddy out for the day. Kieran and Declan had, after lunch, taken off to their grandmother's after she'd phone and complained her grass in the front and back was a jungle. Reghan had taken Mikayla into downtown Flushing to spend their allowances at little shops that took up the main street. Alannah had, after getting into an argument with her father over breakfast -because she didn't understand why she was grounded and he was in no mood to talk about it at that point in time- had locked herself in her room.

The ink jet printer sitting on the desk finally quieted and Sam opened her eyes. Grabbing a hold of the edge of the desk, pulled herself across the floor and snatched the piece of paper out of the printer. Giving it a quick once over, she nodded her approval and pushed the chair away from the desk and jumped up. Heading out of the office, she journeyed down the narrow hallway that lead towards the front of the house. Her bare feet softly padding along the hardwood floors as she made her way through the living room and into the front foyer. The heavy wooden front door was wide open and the screen door unlocked, and the sound of a radio playing and the hissing of the garden hose filtered into the house.

Now that's why I married him, she thought with a grin, as she spied her husband in the driveway, clad in a pair of athletic shorts, a black wife beater and a pair of sunglasses on his face. His hair was wet and sticking up messily and his feet were bare as he walked through the puddles of soap and water as he washed both of their vehicles. The muscles in his shoulders and arms well defined and his skin bore a hint of tan.

I didn't marry him for his compassion and his personality. I married him 'cause he's just plain goddamn hot.

She giggled to herself, and pushing open the screen door, stepped out onto the porch. "Don't shoot!" she implored, as she journeyed down the front steps

"Not in the mood for a wet t-shirt contest, babe?" Flack asked with a grin. "You may be close to fifty, but your girls still…"

"Don't even finish that sentence," she laughed. "And I'd much rather indulge your perverted, kinky side in doors, in private."

"Twice already today isn't enough?" he inquired, and released the handle on the nozzle of the hose in order to stop spray of water.

"I'm pregnant, Donnie. And you know what those extra hormones do to me. Remember? Incessantly horny when I'm not knocked up?"

"And enough to give any mortal man a heart attack or cause them to die of exhaustion when you are," he finished, and dropping the hose on driveway, reached up to take down the bottle of beer that rested on the roof of his SUV. "What are you doing out here, anyway? Thought you were working on that thing for the association."

"I was…" she told him, and tip toeing through the water, stood beside him and wrapped her arm around his waist. "But I'm finished," she said, and held the paper up for him to see. "Will you read it?" she asked hopefully. "Proof read it for me?"

"Me proof read for you? You're the brain of this union, babe."

"I'd just like you to take a look at it," she told him. "It would mean a lot to me if you read it."

"Alright…" he said with a nod, and taking the paper, folded it in half and tucked it into the pocket of his shorts. Then bent down to kiss her softly.

"Right now," she told him, pulling the paper out of his pocket and holding it out to him.

"It can't wait? I'm kind of busy here…."

"It can't wait," she informed him. "I really…I really just need you to read it, okay? It's important that you read it right now. You'll see why when you're finished. But you just have to…just please read it right now, Donnie. Humour me for once, okay?"

"Okay…."

"Thank you," she said, and accepted another kiss. "Mmmm…this is my favourite side of you, you know."

"What side is that?"

"The whole wife beater showing off your arms and you all tanned and sweaty," she told him. "It makes me…" she gave a little shudder and a bright smile. "Well hurry up and read that and finish out here and then come inside and I'll show you what it does to me."

He grinned as she released her hold on him, and watched as she headed back up the driveway. Liking the way her denim capris hugged her ass and her hips. And the way her simple red t-shirt clung to her and showed off that little baby bump.

I did that, he thought proudly, as she climbed the stairs. That was all me.

"Quit staring at my ass Donald!" she called over her shoulder,, then disappeared into the house.

He chuckled and shook his head. His wife had always been one of a kind, that was for sure. Grabbing his bottle of beer, he made his way towards the house and took a seat on the top step.

Unfolding the piece of paper she had presented him with earlier, he took a deep breath and prepared for the emotional journey the love of his life was about to send him on.

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